


Awake

by cbliue



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hello!, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Thanks for reading!!:), i always get distracted but I will try to keep updating
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:20:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25076773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cbliue/pseuds/cbliue
Summary: This is trash xoxodont bother reading rn hehe, im keeping it up for motivation but i don't know what i was thinking in posting this disaster
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 33





	Awake

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE!
> 
> This is my first time writing a story like this, and as I continued to block the chapters out I realized I wasn't super happy with my consistency ect. I'm going to try writing larger chunks before posting them, I was a a bit premature in posting this lol. 
> 
> Basically the two chapters I have posted are subject to change..
> 
> I really like this idea, but I've gotta work on my writing for a quick sec. See you all soon!!

***

"I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."

Sarah Williams

***

Although the ticking of Nott’s clock is muffled, Draco Malfoy throws up a quietening charm. The heavy look to the bed hangings is incredibly deceptive, in his opinion. They’re about as effective as sheer, silk sheets when it comes to their noise cancelling abilities. 

That has certainly led to some embarrassing nights over the past seven years. Now, Draco finds that he doesn’t mind the noise in the dorm much at all. He is content with listening to his roommates as they trudge through their evening routines. 

It’s almost comforting to Draco. The noise. He had spent so long eating little, and sleeping less, that Goyle’s mindless humming and Zabini’s heavy tread are welcome and grounding additions to his evenings. 

Even the blasted clock, which Nott had been so thrilled to find the week before in Hogsmeade, hadn’t bothered Draco. He’s happy to support Theo, who has thrown himself into Transfigurations with vigor following the war. Apparently clockwork has very similar properties to the foundations of Transfiguration. If studying obnoxious metal boxes makes Theo feel better, who is Draco to stand in the way. 

The ticking is certainly bothering him now, he thinks, staring up the ceiling of his four poster bed. This bed is the only thing that has stayed the same in Draco’s life. Since the war, it feels like everything he’s ever known has vanished. Like the self-righteous winning side cast a powerful Evanesco, but they did it so subtly that Draco himself hadn’t noticed at first. 

Draco has no complaints about the outcome of the Great War. At the very end, he may have been the one to hate Voldemort the most. 

A cold shiver runs down his spine, as it always does when he thinks of the Dark Lord. He tugs his Hungarian goose down duvet higher up his chest. 

He has no right to claim it, he knows, but a part of Draco feels that no matter how many people lost loved ones, no matter how many lost limbs, or even lost their minds, he may have had it the worst. No one else had to live with Voldemort. No one else had their entire world view ripped from under them unforgivingly, while the consequences of their childhood beliefs caused the world to burn around them. No one else was told, while their loved ones were violently killed, that they deserved the grief and loss. No one else had to live with the weight of everyone else's pain, on top of their own. Draco sometimes wishes he can be selfish with his grief. He wants to be able to lash out without fearing a lifelong prison sentence. If his father’s experience is anything to go by, a lifetime in Azkaban isn’t much more than a year anyways. But he knows he can’t be angry, or sad, because he was on the side that caused it all. 

He twists the silver band around his ring finger with his thumb, feeling the engraved ‘M’ that was delicately carved there centuries ago. The title Malfoy no longer means anything, but Draco is not just his surname, he thinks viciously. His arrogance had never been a facade, even if he exaggerated somewhat as a school boy. He has always been one for theatrics, regardless of his last name. He keeps the ring more out of habit than anything. 

So Draco will not grovel at the feet of the Wizarding World. Not because he’s a Malfoy, but because he’s a person that needs to heal, too. He barely remembers that himself most days, without a whole population telling him otherwise. At first his mother was determined to save the family name by playing the regretful, blind follower. She quickly realized that once people are given the opportunity to attack, they will. Draco understands why of course, she was simply giving the public two blonde targets to thrust their anger onto. Still, it proved more harm than good to apologize to every person they met. Draco felt out his own approach eventually: he will not grovel but neither will he let himself forget all the death he’s caused.

The familiar nausea of guilt rises to the back of his throat. Draco sits up slowly in bed, hugging his legs and resting his head on his knees. There is a sliver of light sneaking between the curtains at his feet. He kicks at it spitefully, but only succeeds in exposing his toes to the cold air. 

Draco hisses in frustration, sitting up fully and crossing his legs underneath himself. Going to sleep would mean horrible dreams but staying awake just leads to more thinking and exhaustion the next day. The circles under his eyes are darkening rapidly to bruises.

“From the Ashes We Rise,” Draco can hear in Lucius’s clipped tone. 

He has a thousand souls resting on his shoulders, and he’ll be atoning for them the rest of his life, but he will not let them break him like they broke his father. 

Instead he will rise: stripping himself of the anger he’s always held in his shriveled heart, and cutting the biting remarks he’s been so conditioned to throw. His purpose in life can be reforged now from the weapon he had become, and he’s determined to use his free will well. He owes it to everyone whose lives he helped destroy.

Draco rolls to his side and swings his legs off of the bed. He feels antsy but can’t bring himself to move just yet, at this time of night there’s no one to watch him sit dumbly on the edge of his bed.

Tilting his head back tiredly, his lips quirk into a little smile, the way they always do when he thinks of his mother. She would pinch his arm if she heard him claim fault for the war. No perhaps not. After all the war has changed everyone, including his unyielding mother. Perhaps now she will reach for him, instead. She’ll hold him tight and whisper, “My darling, oh my darling. It’s alright. It’s okay now. You must know that it’s not your fault. That it wasn’t your fault!” She might even weep. She seems to do that a lot lately, but it’s difficult to say what ‘a lot’ is for Narcissa Malfoy when as long as Draco can remember, she’s never shed a tear.

It _was_ his fault though, and it’s _not_ alright. It’s all his fault. He hasn’t been Darling Draco for a long time, and for once the knowledge pains him. He can’t find it in himself to be embarrassed about his mother’s doting anymore, he knows it’s the only unconditional love he’ll ever have.

When Draco was young, before he lost his innocence and everything that comes with it, his father’s praise had meant everything. Lucius had not been an affectionate man, so a simple nod or pleased quirk of lips left Draco on a high that nothing could bring down. 

_It was better than flying for him_ , he thinks with a snort of disgust, letting his head fall back towards the ground and crossing his ankles. His custom sheets crinkle stiffly underneath him. 

Draco’s idea of luxury has changed greatly over the past year. Never in his life did he think he would long for second hand linens, already soft with use. He’s way past haughty superiority though, if Draco’s honest with himself. Lucius would be turning in his grave. But Draco has already tried being cruel, malicious, and vain. He’s so sick of it. Arrogance is, for lack of a better word, exhausting. Draco wants to be soft. He wants to be thoughtful and considerate, but who will believe him now?

Once upon a time, his father’s praise had meant everything. And then when Draco had gone to Hogwarts he began to have his doubts. He was supposed to rule the school, his parents always said. Even Severus had drawled, looking down his crooked nose at a bright eyed Draco, that _he_ would be the best. The brightest. 

Draco always knew he was special, and he was promised that at Hogwarts it would be no different. He yearned for knowledge the same way that Crabbe had yearned for sweets when they were children. He could never get enough. 

By the time he was eleven, he was flying brooms better than any other boy his age. Partly because his parents could afford the best models, but also because he would spend hours every night studying under his blankets at the manor. With a flickering candle he had learned the precise science of flying. About potions, and spells too. 

Draco knows now that his little brain couldn’t fathom the complexity of magic at that age. Still, he had dreamed of Hogwarts desperately as a boy. Not just for the power he knew he would have over his peers, promised to him by his family name, but because he figured he could finally discover himself truly. 

_Funny_ , Draco thinks now, sitting on the same bed he had claimed on his first day in the glittering castle at eleven years old. _Funny that after seven years he’s no closer to knowing who he is_.

Then once he finished first year he wondered: if his father had been so, so wrong about school, could he be wrong about anything else? 

Stupid Potter, with his stupid hair, and stupid glasses, and knobby knees, had refused his hand. Stupid Potter fell asleep in class while Draco took painstaking notes, no matter the subject. Stupid Potter, who had never seen a broom in his life before school, beat Draco to the Quidditch field. Stupid Potter laughed loudly at dinner, his delighted shouts echoing across the Great Hall every night. And people loved him for it. They adored him for it. His rambling nonsense and the ignorant way he strutted through the halls, the Weasel hanging on to him with absolutely no self confidence, and Granger hurrying along with her nose in a book. 

She’s the only one in the class, in the school really, that Draco’s ever felt any competition with. It was always a big laugh in the Slytherin common room, at Draco’s expense, that a muggle born witch could top his marks from the very first day of school. Despite the angry flush on the back of his neck, Draco was secretly pleased with the challenge. 

He’s competitive that way.

Draco never wanted to be friends with Potter, if he’s being honest. Through school, he hated the twat for all the humiliation he put Draco’s family through. And his ridiculous hair offends Draco immensely. 

Draco rolls his eyes and sighs, using his arms to push himself up. The sharp tic-tic-tic of Theodore’s little device is driving him mad now. He cards his finger through his hair and steps towards the high window, grasping a bed post for support. Through the warped glass, Draco can just make out Andromeda, rising from the northern horizon as the weather cools down. His own starry namesake, Draco, is too far up in the sky to see from here. The eighth year dorm is high enough up that if he looks down, he can just make out the greenhouses glinting in the moonlight. He stares at them tiredly. 

Sure he had hated Potter, and don’t get him started on Ronald Weasely. But Granger? A small part of Draco would have really liked to have been friends with Granger. When he had first learned who she was, Draco’s first thought was repulsion. All eleven years of his life he had been informed about muggle borns and their inferiority. But after a while, while eying her distrustfully in class, he couldn’t help but wish they could share notes. She was the only other student ever taking them. 

He wished he had a friend at all, really. His relationships in Slytherin were all alliances in the making, and it was lonely. Taking one of Potter’s friends sounded brilliant to a fourteen year old Draco. After all, he’d been told once: “Your first thought is what you’ve been conditioned to think. The second reflects who you are”. 

The dirty man had croaked it, bundled up on a side street in Diagon, after a six year old Draco tried to surreptitiously lay a galleon at his feet. Draco had snuck away from his parents, tripping over his new robes when he stumbled into the wizard. At first he stared wide eyed and afraid, before pulling the heavy coin from his pocket. He was meant to use it in Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop, but he could always say he lost it and get another one easily. The man had barely finished his sentence when his mother swept in and pulled Draco away with clawing hands. She had scolded him so violently that Draco was afraid to go back to Diagon Alley for two whole years. The next day his father taught him how to sneer at people below him.

“They are lazy and lack any sense of self respect, Draco. Do not acknowledge them or they will greedily take more than you are willing to give. People on the ground are always there for a reason.”

_People in Azkaban are there for a reason too, Lucius_ , Draco thinks with malice, clenching his hands into fists. The window in front of him is closed, but the cold glass is making him shiver from a distance. Draco turns to face the room. Half a dozen socks are littering the floor near Goyle’s bed, and Blaise has a small plate on his nightstand that’s dotted with honey and crumbs. Draco can feel a warm knot blooming in his chest at the subtle disarray, despite his lifelong love of tidiness.

Around second year, when Potter bested his father and freed the only house elf that had shown Draco’s bratty self any kindness, he realized that he hated Lucius. It shook him to his core, and he quickly bashed the thought from his young brain. Despite his best efforts, it kept creeping through to tickle the back of his mind. How could his father, who claimed to be so powerful and strong, be defeated by a twelve year old boy. His mother then, he decided. His mother was the most important thing in the world to him. All children need someone to love them, and Draco knew that he had his mother wrapped around his little finger.

_He always took her for granted_ , Draco frowns, blowing air at the pale strand of hair that’d been inching its way down his forehead. It’s getting late for sure, and the stillness in the dorm is making his left eye start to twitch. 

There was a time that he hated his mother, too, like most teenagers do at some point or another. During sixth year he resented how far she let their family fall. He was sixteen, only sixteen when she let him take the dark mark without a word of protest. He had been so desperate and alone, needing to make up for his father’s mistakes. His mother was closed into herself, and Draco could not reach her. His father was going mad with desperation, giving all of himself to the Dark Lord. And Draco was alone and scared and searching so hard for a way out. 

Striding back to his trunk, Draco thinks of sixth year when he had spent all of his time hiding from Potter. The idiot had become observant all of the sudden, for Merlin’s sake. Draco _still_ despises Potter for seeing what Draco had been up to, and doing nothing. He must have been the only one to actually _see_ Draco that year. But instead of helping, which Potter’s so famous for doing, he decided without a doubt that Draco was unsaveable.

It had made him so angry, made him lash out even more.

Draco rifles through his things quietly and pulls out his favorite mug with triumph. It’s an odd looking thing, with a narrow chip along the brim and a wonky handle. Draco loves it. He got it during third year after winning some stupid bet. It probably had something to do with Potter, so it’s no surprise he won the twenty knuts. The coins were literally pocket change, but Draco remembers how proud he was when he swiped them from Pansy. It was the first bit of money he had ever earned himself. During that winter break he snuck away from his parents and into a pawnshop, where a French wizard traded him the elusive self-heating mug. He quickly found out that a weak warming charm could heat water faster than the defective thing. He still loves it, maybe because it doesn’t quite work the way it should. It does a fantastic job of keeping his tea hot, even if it doesn’t do the actual heating. His mother can’t understand why he still keeps it, but Draco doesn’t need his mother’s approval on his crockery.

Sighing, he stands with his beloved mug in hand and heads to the bathroom to fill it with that special _Hogwarts_ tap water.

During the war, if Narcissa had said anything, even looked at him with something other than a dead stare, he would have gone to Potter. He knows he would have, because his mother was the person he loved most in the world, and the only thing tethering him to the manor. If she had told him to go, he would have fled. Malfoy Manor hadn’t been his home in a long time, anyways. 

Draco flinches as he fills his cup quietly, because his mother said nothing and he hated her for it. And his father said ‘if you take the mark, I might try to love you’. And Potter sat across the Great Hall with a stony stare. ‘I'm coming for you,’ he seemed to promise. Dumbledore, the old bat, peered at him from over his half moon spectacles and just waited. 

Draco was a pawn to all of them. He had tried to convince himself he was worth something, that he had some value, but he knows now that it was childish. 

He had been lost, and scared, and angry, and so he let the goddamn Death Eaters into his castle, his home. 

Then Dubledore died because Draco couldn’t be brave, and the whole world had to suffer. And it’s all Draco’s fault.

His fingers start to shake slightly, so he sets the dark red mug down on the counter. He can’t help that it’s his favorite colour, even though the stupid Gryffindors are convinced they own it. Plus, it makes perfect sense that the mug’s maroon. Technically it’s supposed to heat things up, and there’s a general correlation between red and warmth.

He casts a strong worded warming charm at the water and watches with satisfaction as it begins to bubble. Draco doesn’t hate Potter anymore. He hasn’t since Dumbledore fell from that tower and Draco ran. Right around then it hit him that Harry Potter was his last hope.

Fortunately that doesn’t make Draco special, ninety percent of the wizarding world also considered Harry their last hope, too. Still, it was - and still is - bloody embarrassing after all their unique history.

In the manor he used to squeeze his eyes shut so tight he saw stars, scratching his nails up and down his arms and praying to whatever gods that could possibly exist for _Potter to be safe_. Potter became his lifeline in the manor. Lovely, that.

His parents were long gone, hidden into themselves, and if he was caught studying or learning anything that wouldn’t expressly help the Dark Lord win the war he was Crucioed. His mother always watched with a stiff lip.

He can still remember the exact day when all hell broke loose. Draco had been sitting in his room at the manor when he heard shouting from the entryway. He hadn’t eaten in two days and was convinced he was dreaming when he looked down to see the golden trio kneeling below him. 

His shriveled heart twinged, even now at the memory, for brilliant Granger, who Draco’s sure was the only reason the two boys held out so long in the first place. 

Weasley looked different, even hunched over he had more confidence than Draco ever saw before.

And Potter. Stupid Potter, with his face all swollen and glasses falling off. When Draco saw him he was hit with an emotion so hard he almost blacked out, but that may have just been the dehydration. He was drawn to Potter from his very core, and he walked down the stairs in a trance. His Aunt hissed in his ear, and his parents egged him on, but all he could see was Potter’s green eyes, as bright as they had always been. Draco leaned in close, though he had no real reason too. His breath mingled with the other boy’s, and Draco’s realized numbly that his mind had been sleeping, hopeless. It had awoken then, and a small flame had danced in his chest. “ _I can’t be sure_.”

  
  


***

  
  


Like most things in Draco’s life, he is incredibly precise when he makes his tea. Pansy thought he was absolutely crazy because of it, and he’s sure she wasn’t the only one to scoff at his process. For all his old muggle-directed bigotry as a child, when Draco makes his tea, he makes it _right_. No silly conjuring of tea leaves, no vanishing them from the cup, and he would rather die than Aguamenti the stuff right out the tip of his wand. Honestly. That’s why he finds himself sitting on the floor with a numb buttocks and damp spots on his cotton shirt, rather than a hot beverage and a book by the common room fire.

While making his way out of the communal bathroom he tripped, barely, but it was just enough to splosh hot water right onto his chest. He didn’t have to worry about the burn long because the freezing air zapped any warmth right out of it. By the time he made it back down the hall to the dorm, he had a dark, damp patch of cold water seeping cold through his chest.

He picks at it now, lifting the spot from his thin frame. There’s barely enough of him to stay warm without this intrusion, thank you very much. Draco is nestled by his trunk with his back resting against his bed as he watches the steam curl from his cup on the floor. It looks so innocent, and he stares daggers at the darkening liquid. The little metal ball he uses as a tea strainer bobs up to the surface, like it knows Draco’s watching. _Fuck off_ , he thinks at it darkly. It begins to cheerily dance across the surface. Rolling his eyes, he ignores his steeping tea to clean up the small mess he’s made. 

Narcissa hates that Draco has his expensive teas imported from muggles, but, as he tells her every time he thanks the confused muggle mailman and luggs the heavy boxes back up the driveway, they just make better tea. 

All wizards, even Arthur Weasley, think they’re so much better because they can do things faster with magic. Most don’t mean to be so condescending, but it comes from years of taking advantage of magic to do the most mundane things. Draco takes great joy in parroting Narcissa’s favorite line back to her, “Patience is a virtue, my dear”.

His tea strainer is testing his patience right now, he thinks. Using his new wand, he seals the plastic bag holding his newest addition to his tea collection, and slides it back into its metal tin. The metal’s a nice lavender colour. About half of his trunk is filled with tea tins this year, which Goyle cackled loudly at on the first day. Even Draco has to admit the storage is excessive, but conjured tea just doesn’t taste the same, and a good steeping is the key to the perfect cup.

Only a few students came back for eighth year. Goyle, Nott, Zabini, and Millicent Bulstrode are the only Slytherins. Hannah Abbot’s the only Hufflepuff willing to look Draco’s way, and the rest are unmemorable. Trevor Boot’s cheerful enough; even bothering with a wave in Draco’s direction once or twice. Granger, Potter, Longbottom, and some kid named Thomas make up the Gryffindor bunch, and that’s it. That’s all that’s left of the returning seventh years.

Draco lifts the metal strainer out of his mug carefully and lets it drip a few times before flicking the latch to open it. He’s not got a problem with vanishing leaves once they’ve been thoroughly used, so he waves them away quickly before dropping the clean little ball back into his trunk. 

He grabs his cup, and the thick book on his nightstand, before descending down to the eighth year common room. The title's long and impossible to pronounce but the general idea of the text is advanced arithmancy and its applications to Transfigurations. 

Before the start of term Headmaster McGonagall recognized that tensions would be high among the eighth years. She decided to place the group together with a common living space to promote cooperation, but Draco’s pretty sure she underestimates an angry Hufflepuff’s penchant for violence. She did let everyone choose their rooms, however, and unsurprisingly each house banded together by dorm room.

Draco doesn’t know how she knew, or why she’d care, about their beds. On their first night back, after he had been either ignored or cursed at during dinner, he walked into the dorm room with his head high. When he, and his dorm mates too, realized they were standing before t _heir_ beds, they all fell into a long and serious silence. They weren’t really speaking to begin with, but all four of them had clearly been really touched by the gesture. Draco certainly was.

He smiles softly as he reaches the end of the boy’s hallway. A week later and he still can’t believe they’re back in the castle. He really can’t believe they let him back at all, with his dark mark on public record.

Draco’s surprised when he nears the bottom of the stairs and sees a faint glow against the cracked, stone walls. The light is rising from the common room, and he’s pretty sure it’s nearing two or three in the morning. He hopes that someone left the fire on before bed, because another student in the room would mean he has no chance of sitting by the fire tonight. There’s an unspoken rule, at least there was in the Slytherin house, that anyone up and occupying the common room in the middle of the night has claim, and they are not to be disturbed.

He turns the corner cautiously, and nearly drops his precious mug. Draco had been lucky enough to avoid Potter since the welcoming feast, but conveniently there he is, sitting alone by the fire. 

Draco takes him in from behind the archway. Potter’s eyes are closed, and his dark lashes cast long shadows down his cheeks. His bony fingers, delicately tapping his left thigh, are the only hint to Draco that the other boy is awake. Draco stands staring, with his tea and his book that’s getting heavier by the moment.

He hasn’t seen Potter alone once since they got back to school. Not that Draco’s seen him at all, really. After the first few times they made awkward eye contact in the halls, Draco’s been taking it upon himself to duck into abandoned classrooms - and twice now behind suits of armor - whenever he hears the Harry Potter fan club coming around the corner. 

It’s not like Potter’s been glaring at him, but Draco thinks the ‘subtle nod of recognition’ is almost worse. Potter always seems respectfully cheerful, surrounded by masses of adoring fans that want this or that from the Boy Who Lived. Well actually the boy who lived times a dozen, but it’s not like Draco’s counting or anything. Luckily, he doesn’t have a very difficult time hiding from Potter because a lot of the girls at Hogwarts can scream like banshees.

Draco almost feels bad for him. Almost.

Potter doesn’t look happy at all now, though Draco certainly hopes he wouldn’t have found a grinning Potter at the buttcrack of dawn. _That_ would not look good, sanity-wise, on Potter’s part. 

He looks tired, if not a little sad. Draco doesn’t know what compels his treasonable brain forward, but he has to catch himself quickly before he does something horrible. Like stepping into the room. His tea sloshes dangerously in the mug, like it’s silently judging Draco’s cowardice. The landing is cold on his bare feet, and his arm is aching from holding up his three-inch-thick book on numbers. Draco is very quickly beginning to regret getting out of bed in the first place. A sip of sleeping potion would have knocked him out cold. But being knocked out cold also means dreams he can’t wake up from, so it’s kind of a lose-lose situation. 

Looking up again, Draco sees that Potter’s hand has stilled. Draco flicks wide eyes up to his face, but Potter’s own are still closed and his breathing is beginning to evening out. Asleep then?

He had been so fixed on the rumpled looking boy, that a distant thump echoing from the girls hallway makes him nearly jump out of his skin. He recognizes the sound of a dorm door opening, and shrinks back into the shadows, nerves shot and heart racing.

Something keeps him frozen in place, despite his frantic brain demanding that he return to his dorm at once. _Draco, snap out of it, come on. Snap - oh god._ He practically becomes one with the wall as Hermione Granger herself comes tiptoeing down the opposite set of stairs. Luckily for him, she seems too tired to be paying much attention to anything.

“Harry?” she asks quietly. Potter doesn’t respond at first and she trods over to the squashy armchair by the fire, unsure. “Harry?”

Draco holds back a snort as Harry wakes with a start and nearly punches Hermione in the face.

“ ‘Mione that you? Bloody hell you scared me,” Potter trails off, muttering incoherently. He’s speaking too quietly for Draco to hear, and Granger lowers her voice to the same tone. She seems to be convincing him of something, and is rubbing soothing circles on his back. Both of them are bleary eyed, and Draco feels like he’s spying on something rather intimate. His thoughts are confirmed when Harry tucks his head into her shoulder.

Draco feels sick and ashamed. He shouldn’t have stayed this long. He switches his book to his other arm, balancing his tea precariously, and turns to slip back up the stairs when he hears a change in Hermione’s tone. 

She sounds a bit more scolding when she says, “Harry, babe, you need to go up to bed. You can’t just -” . The rest of what she says is drowned out by Harry’s groan, but Draco’s heard enough. 

He practically runs back to bed, blinking as his eyes adjust to the dark hall. The water stain on his shirt has already dried and, he takes an experimental sip of tea, his tea’s gone cold. Smashing.

He’s afraid the pounding of his heart will wake his dorm mates as he sets his things back on the nightstand and tucks into bed. Draco can’t help but feel like he’s missing something. What on earth is Potter doing up so late, and how did Granger know to come down? It’s a bit hypocritical, he knows, but Draco’s annoyed all the same. Classic Potter, taking Draco’s spot and looking good while doing it. The audacity!

He shakes his head. It doesn’t bloody well matter what Potter’s up to, and it’s not Draco’s problem nor his place to be curious. Neither of them want anything to do with the other. Potter may have been his lifeline for months, but he also slashed deep grooves into Draco’s chest. Draco may have thrown Harry his wand during the final moments of the battle, but he was also the reason the Death Eater’s got into the castle in the first place. Draco also knows, though, that his own mother is the reason Potter was alive to kill Voldemort at all. It’s ironic really, a mother’s love had saved Harry as a baby, and a mother’s love had saved him again. Draco’s slightly embarrassed that it was _his_ mother that did said saving, but it is what it is. They owe each other more than a life debt, so the least Draco can do is stay out of Potter’s way. 

He’s only back at Hogwarts to finish his schooling, Draco reminds himself. Learning is Draco’s last true love, right before flying and his mother. He’s forgiven her, and she has forgiven him, though Draco knows it will never be the same between them. Lucius’s death in Azkaban has truly taken a toll on beautiful Narcissa. Draco doesn’t share the same loss, but he promised himself he will be there for his mother. 

He figures, he doesn’t know who he is, but he might as well try to be the person he’s always wanted to be.

  
  


***

  
  


Draco can’t remember why, exactly, he is drifting in the middle of the Black Lake, but it’s pleasant enough that he can’t be bothered to move. He’s floating, face up, as the sun breaks from behind a cloud and a gentle rain begins to dust his face. Draco’s sure he’s waiting for someone.. but clearly the meeting isn’t pressing or else he would have remembered who’s coming. He has nothing but time.

Arching his back in the water, Draco stretches and turns to look at the castle he knows will be to his left. The pleasant, floating feeling drains to terror; the gentle rain isn’t rain at all, and the ash is now lying thick and damp on his skin. Hogwarts is burning, fiendfyre rearing from the shattered windows of the castle. The Dark Mark claims the sky as looming clouds rush into the valley, and Draco’s arm is burning. It’s burning like a whip’s lash, sharp and fierce. His whole body is catching fire and -

“Draco!” In the same tone, “What the _hell_ are you still doing asleep?” 

Draco can physically feel the pain from his arm seep away as he comes to. He’d been gripping his forearm fiercely in his sleep and has left a dark red bruise in the shape of a hand. Draco turns away quickly. The mark isn’t something he likes to look at, let alone touch. 

He closes his eyes with a sigh, exhausted. Before he can murmur a reply, someone rips the curtains open. Draco shifts away from the light with a disgruntled noise, seeing pink from behind his shut eyelids.

Now that the hangings are open though, Draco can’t believe he hasn’t already been woken up. Forget the sunlight, the noise in the dorm alone is offensive. His curtains must have been feeling sympathetic and taken pity on him, because Goyle’s mid-way through singing a horrendously off pitch Celestina Warbeck hit. 

Draco could have sworn he set a six o’clock wand timer when he went to sleep, but clearly it hadn’t been effective. He curses himself silently. He likes having quiet time in the morning to get ready for the day, and if breakfast in the Great Hall already started, he won’t be able to eat until after Transfigurations. He hates waking up at the crack of dawn, but he hates being unprepared even more, so an early rise it is. They’d been at school for just over a month now and he doesn’t even feel that sick anymore when his wand begins to trill. 

Draco’s welcome back to Hogwarts was not a very warm one, not that he expected anything different. It definitely wasn’t as bad as it could have been, though. The golden trio had, for some reason, painted a far kinder version of the truth about Draco’s involvement during the war. 

“That’s Draco Malfoy,” he hears in hushed whispers when he walks by groups of students. “I heard he didn’t give Potter up when Snatchers got ‘em.” And sometimes, “I heard he threw Potter his own wand in the end! Everyone saw him do it! I can barely believe it, myself. Did you know that was _the_ wand that defeated Voldemort?” 

They were wrong of course, about that one. Potter never did give Draco back his wand, so, to Draco’s great amusement, everyone’s actually falling over themselves to spot his perfectly normal wand from Ollivander’s old stores. To the point, students are plenty excited to speculate, but when it comes to Draco himself they’re rather cold. Suspicious of the ‘youngest Death Eater’ and all the evil he might do. 

Potter never spoke about the fire. Granger never said that Draco had hid while Bellatrix Lestrange carved hateful words into her skin. Weasley never told the school that he was the one who _let them in_. So the students at Hogwarts watch him with narrowed eyes but they say nothing. 

Fine by him, Draco thinks. He’s happy to take his meals in the kitchen instead of the Great Hall. The only downfall is that he has to make it there before meal times, when the food is still down below. Sleeping in makes things a bit more complicated, but he’ll manage. He could always ask Nott for his notes today, Draco muses. If he skips class he could sneak down to the kitchens before lunch. The elves wouldn’t have sent the food up yet and Draco could probably snag a hearty serving of potatoes. 

Who’s he kidding. He would never dare skip a class, Hogwarts is his last chance. Especially McGonagall’s lectures. Every other teacher might actually prefer Draco gone, but McGonagall treats him with the same expectations as anyone else. He’s incredibly grateful for that.

_Damn_. He would have really liked some toast this morning.

“Draco,” followed by a rather creative string of cursing. ‘Wake the hell up you tit.” 

Draco doesn’t turn around. The first few days of the term, the other Slytherin boys were stepping on eggshells around him. Lucius had just died and Draco had never been… pleasant at school to begin with. They were probably worried that Draco wanted to murder them all in their sleep, before running off to his mummy. 

In actuality, Draco’s father hadn’t ever heard much about the happenings at Hogwarts over the years, and his mother even less so. Lucius spit curses at the castle and everyone in it without Draco’s inside information, so his schoolyard threats were usually empty. 

Once his dorm mates realized Draco wasn’t going to hex their bollocks off, they had warmed up considerably. That includes, but is not limited to, calling Draco offensive names at all hours of the day. Apparently they had been saving them up.

Draco knows they still didn’t trust him really, which he’s actually glad for. He doesn’t really trust them, either, and he’s most comfortable alone anyways. Draco has a habit of pushing people away, and unsurprisingly he’s _very_ good at dissociation. ‘To love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed.” Words to live by. Draco’s been destroyed enough for many lifetimes.

Rank breath ghosts his ear. He cracks an eye. Theo is dangerously close to Draco’s face.

“Draco!” This time it’s Zabini, yelling from across the room. A pillow hits the closed curtains at the foot of his bed. The fabric ripples and Draco opens his other eye. They’re brave to wake him up, especially after years of living in the same dorms. Draco is not a morning person. He’s never fully awake until he’s had a cold shower and a hot cup of tea.

“Good morning, gentleman,” Draco purrs. “You know, I could ward all of you in this room so well you’d miss breakfast. _And_ Arithmancy”. No one said he has to be saint _all_ of the time, he still has one shred of his dignity left and he’s determined to keep it. Even though they know his threat is hollow now, he has a reputation to keep regarding his phenomenal magical prowess.

“Yeah? Good luck with that. It's nearly nine already. Arithmancy is in ten minutes”.

Oh _Hell_ . Not only has he _truly_ slept in, he’s going to have to hurry getting his things together for class. He had also meant to write the last half inch of his Arithmancy paper while the rest of the boys were at breakfast, after his morning walk on the castle grounds. 

He quite enjoys walking these days. Draco considered the muggle activity far beneath him before, but he can’t exactly play Quidditch on the pitch these days. He had to take up jogging to keep in shape. Nothing beats flying, but he’s getting fast on foot. 

What an awful start to his morning. No shower, no tea, no walk, no time to properly dress, his essay isn’t finished, and worst of all, he won’t get to eat a proper breakfast or lunch.

It could be worse, he reminds himself. Much worse. Draco’s ashamed of his brief tantrum. After all, he should have finished his essay the night before when he couldn't sleep.

He slides out of bed as Theo retreats. The stone floor is ice cold where the room’s central carpet can’t reach, and it helps force Draco out of his half asleep daze. He’s going to have to keep it basic today, just a jumper and tie. Robes are too complicated for this early in the morning. _No_ , Draco chides himself, _it’s pushing mid morning and you were stupid enough to stay up stalking Potter again last night._ He tugs a sock on angrily.

“Thought you might want this,” Theo says, standing above him, and when Draco glances up he almost lets out a grateful sob. Nott has grabbed him an enormous blueberry muffin from the Great Hall.

“I do. Thank you.” He smiles and takes the treat, carefully placing it on his trunk before going to work on his other sock. 

Surprise flickers across Theo’s face before settling on cautious and pleased. “No problem. Just let me take a look at your Potion’s notes tonight, yeah?” 

Draco returns Theo’s shark-like grin. That’s a Slytherin habit if he’s ever seen one, Draco thinks, amused. Theo kicks his heel out with a flourish before heading back over to his overflowing bag that’s perched dangerously on the edge of his bed.

Goyle and Zabini are having a lively discussion about some “ _bloody magnificent_ ” play from yesterday night’s Quidditch friendly, and Theo doesn’t hesitate to jump in.

Draco isn’t shocked that any of the boys find his thanks uncharacteristic. His old self would never have risked such a vulnerable position. Especially among his peers.

He collects his essay from his desk, deciding that he really wants to change their perception of him. He feels warm as he takes in his three babbling roommates, and a part of him hopes that by the end of the year he’ll be on his way to having some genuine friendships. At least among the other Slytherins, who are most likely to accept his attempts as sincere. It’s the first step he will take on his long journey towards basic human decency. 

He checks that the cap is on his inkwell before stuffing it, and his parchment, in his bag. Draco is going for ‘cheerful’ as he turns to address his roommates, “Come on then, boys!” Three heads pop up. “Get your lazy arses up, we wouldn’t want to be late, now would we?” 

Nott gives him the finger before smacking Goyle upside the head. “Up you get. Draco’s right,” he reminds the other two.

They walk out of the dorm together, Draco in the back so he can tap out the light. The other six doors in the hall are firmly closed, which means they’re the last group of boys to leave their room for the day. Draco’s fairly confident, though, that only three of the other rooms are actually occupied. Nott and Goyle are walking ahead, bickering quietly as they descend into the common room.

“You know, you weren’t the only one that missed breakfast today.” Draco quirks a brow at Zabini. They aren’t necessarily friendly per se, but they both have the same determined air about them. Draco can respect that, and he figures any previous rivalries between them had little to do with the boys, themselves.

“Oh?” Draco is glad the question comes off casual, disinterested. 

“Yeah. It got a little crazy when Potter still hadn’t shown by 8:30. I wouldn’t be surprised if some third year snuck up into the dorms and broke down his door.”

“Oh my,” a cough. “Sounds awful. I hope his wards hold”. 

Draco’s mind is racing. Potter’s been staying up late recently, the same as Draco. Weeks before, when he had first seen Potter sitting in the common room, it was at least two o’clock before he himself went back to bed. Since then, Draco’s been checking the common room almost every night, and every time without fail he finds Potter in the same cushy armchair by the fireplace. He knows from experience that anyone staying up that late isn’t going to be getting much rest. 

With his own nightmares leaving him restless and sweating, Draco hasn’t been dozing off until around five. Has something special happened with Potter? Surely he has nightmares, too. Draco tries to remember if he had snuck down to check on Potter the night before. He can’t recall. The nights are starting to blur together as checking for Potter becomes, he shudders inwardly, an evening routine.

Zabini huffs out a laugh at Draco’s nonchalant response, “Better hope he makes it down tomorrow, or they’ll break down our doors too”. Draco sighs.

“Hey! Yeah!” Goyle has caught onto the conversation. “A sixth year girl actually asked me if _I_ knew where he was.” He snorts. “Like me of all people would know where golden boy spent his free time”.

“He missed breakfast, that’s all.” Draco says shortly. The topic of discussion is quickly becoming irritating. 

All of this speculation about Harry skipping breakfast is ridiculous. The poor celebrity is tired, for Merlin’s sake. Being sacked by adoring fans at all hours of the day has to grow old, even for attention loving Potter. Harry has been staying up late, end of story. 

Draco opens his mouth to say just that: he’s been seeing Potter in the common room, often late at night, and it isn’t shocking he’s not in any rush to head down to the Great Hall. Potter probably has house elves bringing him tea and a full english fry up the instant he opens his eyes. 

Draco closes his mouth. He would have to explain to the others why he has been up all those times, as well.

Draco stays silent. _Is that really the only reason_ , he thinks. A tiny voice in the back of his head laughs cruelly. Maybe you just love being the only one who knows where Harry Potter is, it says. Maybe you don’t mind sharing the need for a warm fire in the early hours of the morning. Maybe you don’t mind that you share that secret with Potter, the traitorous voice jeers. _Shut up_ , Draco tells the voice. _No one asked you_. Harry doesn't even know Draco has been around all those times. Which is good for Draco, honestly, because he’s been a bit of a stalker in the shadows. There is no secret between them, no inside joke. Potter has been awake, and so has he. Statistically, so have many other people. End of story.

“Earth to Malfoy”. Draco rolls his eyes at Goyle and sets his shoulders. This is going to be a long day.

  
  


***

  
  


He was right. He’s starving by the time he makes his way to the kitchens after Transfigurations, but the lunch bowls are licked clean, the elves cheerfully scrubbing the last of the dishes. 

“Master Draco!” Winky the elf squeals loudly when she sees him come in. She drops her pan with a clang and runs over to Draco, wringing her hands.

“Winky is sorry sir! Winky is being so sorry! Winky tried to save you a bit of steak and kidney pie, but,” her words blubber off. The elf is beside herself. Draco kneels down beside her and shakes his head.

“Winky, please call me Draco. We’ve gone over this, you have no master. Me least of all.” A self deprecating smirk, then, “thank you for trying to save me some food”. Winky hiccups. “Would you happen to have tea?”.

The words feel strange on Draco’s tongue, and he loves the thrill that being genuinely polite gives him. He isn’t technically rebelling anymore by being so, but years of expectations from his father can’t be stripped away easily. Luckily, the house elves don't seem to hold grudges the same way people do; the trusting creatures that they are. They accepted Draco’s new efforts with open arms, and being in the kitchens gives him a sort of peace he has yet to find anywhere else. His mother is horrified.

“But of course!” She scuttles towards the back wall of the cavernous room, where a bright fire is blazing merrily. “Please come sit Master Draco. Winky will be back in a flash”. 

Draco sighs. “Thank you”. He never can get the elves to call him Draco. Winky least of all, who finds the idea of freedom insulting. He knows that Winky is unusually fierce about her servitude, but he can’t help but roll his eyes at Hermione’s old S.P.E.W efforts. One time during fourth year he had gotten ahold of a S.P.E.W pin and charmed it to flash rude images. He’s actually quite proud of that tricky bit of magic. Draco smirks at the memory of Pansy’s scandalized expression. He never did find out what happened to that old pin. 

The elves insist on the ‘Master’, and Draco feels awful about it. He had been horrible to them for most of his life. Still, they have become his companions over the past month, forgiving him quickly when he brought them each a pair of conjured wool socks. The presents weren’t just for the promise of food, though Draco has to admit a small part the gesture was in hope of a hot breakfast. 

Coming back to school was a difficult decision, but Draco would have been stupid to let the opportunity slip past. 

He intends to take it, putting his pointy nose down and finishing his schooling. Then, in his wildest dreams, he would leave to run a little shop. He could rent his very own space towards the back of Hogsmeade, under a different name of course. He could fix cauldrons, which he already did weekly for his careless peers, sell unique potion ingredients, and charm quills. Draco is good at magic, and he is excellent at Potions. He thinks he could offer a lot of help to Hogwarts students from his little tinkering store. That’s all wishful thinking, Draco knows, but he might as well have some goal for his future or he won’t live to see it happen.

At first Draco didn’t intend on speaking to anyone at Hogwarts, really. He certainly didn’t plan to go out of his way to sneer, but he had no intention of insincere and unwanted small talk, either. On that note, he’s surprised at how easily he, Zabini, Goyle, and Nott were able to reach such amicable grounds. The four Slytherin boys had struck up some sort of silent understanding early on, and Draco is quickly considering them to be tentative friends. Millicent was always quite funny, and Draco remembers deeply enjoying their little fireside chats in the Slytherin common room, cracking jokes about Potions and Potter. She still grins at him in the halls, and Draco has gone down twice now to beat her at chess when the eighth year common room isn’t too crowded .

That just leaves the elves, who are kind to Draco, though he doesn’t deserve it. He has taken to eating all his meals in the kitchen, if he can make it before the food is sent to the Great Hall. Very rarely does food come back down, but he can always count on Winky having tea and cookies to share.

Draco looks up when he hears clinking behind him. He can smell the bergamot before the elf sets the cup down, and he smiles. He has always loved Early Grey. It reminds him of the Malfoy summer home in France. The chateau was confiscated, along with the manor after the war. Regardless, his memories of it are fond and he hopes someone else is enjoying the home’s gardens now, lovely like you can only find in France.

“I won’t be staying long today, I'm afraid,” Draco says to Winky apologetically around a mouthful of biscuit. “I have Potions in a bit, and have to review for an exam beforehand”.

“Can Winky get you anything at all before you go Master Draco? You were not here for breakfast either, should Winky bring soup to your rooms later?”

“That would actually be lovely, Winky. Thank you”.

“It is my honor, Master Draco,” Winky says with wet eyes. Draco will never understand elves and their emotional ways. With a gentle nod, Draco thanks Winky one last time before he leaves the howling elf behind him, heading towards the pear portrait. 

He is just ducking from behind the canvas when he hits the ground hard. 

Draco has slammed, face first, into a very warm, very solid figure that seems to have been running towards the kitchens at full speed. His eyes are watering and his nose burns hot. It doesn’t hurt yet, but Draco’s is sure the pain will come soon. He is going to have a nasty bruise. His surprise turns to anger fast. Who does this kid think he is?

“Dear me,” Draco drawls while prodding at his wounded nose. “You’ve broken it. It could be fatal”.

Potter is wide eyed when Draco looks up, _of course_ it’s him, and the expression on his face is comical. Draco should have been surprised to see the other boy, but the throbbing in his head is seriously disturbing his sense of judgement. Potter’s face is twitching, like he can’t decide if he’s royally pissed, if he should burst out laughing, or groan in pain. Draco had butted him in the chest rather hard, he has to admit. It seems Potter has settled on confusion.

“Malfoy, I -” he stops. He considers his next words carefully. “I’m sorry, I should have looked where I was going. Are you alright?”

“Quite. And you? I’m sorry as well, I wasn’t expecting anyone to come through here at this time of day. I should have looked first”.

Potter is speechless. Draco can’t think of a single time they’ve been in each other's presence this long and not tried to hex one another. He pulls himself off of the floor, and dusts the imaginary dirt off of his pants. Afraid he is going to embarrass himself further, he waits a second before speaking, bracing himself against the cool wall until the world stops spinning. 

“Alright. Well. Potter. I am sorry for attacking your stomach, it was not intentional. Enjoy the kitchens.” He gestures with a sweeping hand.

Potter opens and closes his mouth like a mute fish. Normally Draco would have commented on the rather unattractive expression, but he can feel his face growing warm instead. Potter has been staring for a while now, and it’s becoming uncomfortable. Does he have something on his face? He wipes a finger across his lips to check for crumbs. That seems to snap Harry out of his trance.

“Are you.. okay?” Potter asks. 

This is the first time Draco has seen him up close since that fateful day at the manor, and he notices that Potter’s glasses are crooked. Have they always been that way? Draco can’t remember. It seems silly now, but if he had noticed a thing like that in fourth year he’d have written a clever song about ‘crooked’ Potter in under an hour.

“Draco?” Harry sounds concerned now, and is waving a hand in front of Draco’s face.

“Hm,” he smiles back pleasantly. He’s starting to wish he had grabbed a biscuit to take back to the dorms. Potter is still staring at him, and Draco’s beginning to take offense. He isn’t the only one at fault here. Harry was the one in such a rush, and while Draco had head butted him hard, Draco’s head was the one butted in the first place. _This_ is his childhood enemy and the only person who has ever seen Draco cry. Unbelievable. Maybe Potter expects another apology. “I’m sorry for knocking into you, Potter,” Draco says matter of factly, and decides that now is a good time to take his leave.

His eyes are still watering something fierce by the time he turns back into the dorm room. 

“Hey Draco, are you alright?” Zabini is sitting up against his headboard frowning.

“Oh hey, Blaise,” Draco smiled amicably. “Din’t see you there”. He sits down on his bed.

“Draco, are you _drunk_?” Zabini sets his book down and squints at Draco. Merlin, what is it with people and staring at him today.

“Do I have something on my face?”

“You didn’t answer my question. Were you drinking today, Draco?”

“Of course not! Why would you think that?”

Zabini thinks for a second before sending a quick charm Draco’s way, then he tosses his book to the side and hops off the bed. “Up you get Draco, Pomfrey’s gonna have a look at you”.

“That’s Madam to you”.

“Alright, that’s that. Time to go”.

“I’m not protesting,” Draco argues as he stands up and joins Zabini at the door. “Nice day, innit?”

“Very”. Zabini’s reply is short, and Draco worries he has done something to bother the other boy. He hopes not. By the time the two reach the hospital wing Draco is convinced Zabini is angry with him. Draco’s worried, he really can’t think of what he’s done wrong and he was hoping they were becoming friends, for what it’s worth. First he hit Potter and now his roommate is annoyed with him. He really needs to try harder on the ‘good person’ front.

Pomfrey is not happy with Zabini when she hurries in, robes swishing madly. “He should have come straight to me. Head injuries are never something to joke about”.

“Zabini! You have a head injury?” Draco hopes that Zabini’s brain damage is the reason for his mood, and not his dislike for Draco. Potter has as much brain damage as they come from Voldemort rifling around in his head for the first seventeen years of his life, and Potter is incredibly easy to rile up. That probably isn’t a coincidence. 

On second thought, “Are you alright?” he asks Blaise. Immediately Draco feels bad for wishing head issues on the other boy, and starts to plan out Zabini’s recovery. They are probably going to have to dim the lights in the room, for starters.

“Mister Malfoy, have a seat please,” Pomfrey says with a flick of her wrist. An open book comes flying towards them, and Zabini has to step out of the way. She mutters to herself for a moment and straightens up. “Any nausea?” Now that she mentions it, Draco is feeling rather nauseous.

“I am going to require a nausea potion,” he declares.

“Not so fast Draco, you had a nasty bump to the head. And by the looks of your nose I have to ask: did you bash your face straight against a wall?”

“Harry Potter”.

“Sorry?”

“I smacked my face against Harry Potter”.

Zabini snorts. “Okayy Malfoy, let’s get you to bed”. He turns and addresses Madam Pomfrey. “How long will he be like this?”

“Oh just ‘till early evening,” she says as she casts a few wordless charms on him. Draco feels their calming effect trickle through him immediately. His nausea is already subsiding. “He’s all set for now, but no more classes today Mister Malfoy. Rest, and tomorrow you’ll be fine. I will write to your Professors, in the meantime".

“Thank you Madam,” Zabini flashes her a charming smile as he hauls Draco from the room.

  
  


***

  
  


When Draco wakes, it’s dark out. The stars, brilliant against the black sky, are visible through his open curtains. He lays still as he watches them, breath heavy with sleep. Draco has always loved the stars. He’s named after them, how could he not feel connected to them? With a quick Tempus he finds that it is early morning. 

He has slept through Potions, he realizes with a start. _Shit_. Slughorn already avoids Draco like the plague, and missing an exam in Potions is like losing points for two whole weeks of Charms work. He doubts he can make the points up, too, because NEWT level Potions moves at a quick pace. 

His memories from the day start to trickle back, and his skin prickles when he remembers what caused him to miss class in the first place. Why did it have to have been Potter, of all people? Draco is wide awake now and it's nearing three in the morning. At this rate, he is going to be nocturnal by Christmas.

It’s a Friday, well technically a Saturday, which means the sixth week of the term is finally over. It has gone much better than he could have imagined, though he still has to be very careful where he steps. He can’t risk falling in the spotlight this year. Draco's thoughts turn back to Potter, and he wonders if the other boy is still up, sitting by the common room fire. He wonders what would happen if he went down and stepped into the room for once, instead of hovering in the shadows. 

It doesn’t matter if Potter’s awake, he reminds himself stubbornly. Draco isn’t willing to risk involvement with Potter again this year. Their encounters always end badly, if the past decade is anything to go by. Completing his NEWTs is his first and only priority, not a friendly chat with the savior of the Wizarding world. Even Zabini, Goyle, Millicent, and Nott, who have shown him real kindness since the start of term, have to be kept a small reach away. Draco just can’t risk hurting - or getting hurt by - another person again. He isn't wanted here, and he’s lucky they let ‘the Death Eater’ back into the school at all. Head down, he reminds himself. Besides, his bed is warm and his head is foggy. Saturdays are for sleeping in, and his aching nose is a good distraction from his thoughts as he drifts back off to sleep.

Draco wakes for the second time around nine in the morning. With a look around he figures Zabini is probably in the library and Goyle is still snoring loudly. Nott glances up when he hears Draco rustling,

“Alright?”

“Yes, thank you. I missed the Potions exam yesterday so I should run down now and apologize. I might still be able to get quarter points.”

“You’re off the hook actually”. Nott shrugs. “Madam Pomfrey let Slughorn know you were out cold. He’ll probably offer you make up work, if you’re lucky. Everyone thinks you fell down some stairs, but I was betting you got pushed”.

Lovely to see the student body would be betting on his trips to the hospital wing this year. There are plenty of people who want to push Draco down some stairs. The thought makes the backs of his eyes burn. He blinks the feeling away quickly. He isn’t about to correct Nott and confess that he had head butted Harry Potter, though, and he’s actually surprised that the other boy hasn’t already heard the news. It doesn’t look like he has left the dorm yet this morning, but he would find out the truth soon enough.

“I wasn’t pushed,” Draco says, lifting himself - and his chin, haughtily - out of bed. Pomfrey was right, he feels completely fine today. His muscles are straining to get out of the castle, like they’re trying to prove the point, and he wishes for the thousandth time he could get on a broom. 

At first he was convinced someone would jinx it and he would fall spectacularly to his death. The photographs would circulate for months, that’s for sure. Despite Theo’s prediction, nobody has tried pushing him down stairs yet, so a jinxed broom is no longer his foremost concern. Even if he _is_ guaranteed safety on a broom, absolutely no one will let Draco into a friendly. He’s a better player than all of them anyways so that isn’t the real problem, either. The truth is, Draco will probably never fly again. When his family first traveled back to the manor after the war, before it was taken and Lucius died, Draco had tried to get on a broom. He was vibrating with the need to escape and he practically ran to the broom shed. But when he tried to lift off, he panicked, nearly blacking out. He sat in the corner of the dark shed for over an hour, trying to remember how to breathe without smoke clouding his lungs. 

No more flying for him. Good on the universe, it is the least of what he deserves. He can even smell the hellish smoke now, if he thinks about it long enough.

“I’ll be back before dinner,” Draco says tonelessly as he walks towards the door.

“See you”.

Draco doesn’t bother with a response, He isn’t in the mood to chat and is quickly realizing that if he removes himself from a conversation earlier there is a better chance he won't let out a rude remark. Nott doesn’t need a response either, he definitely couldn’t care less how Draco spends his Saturdays. Draco begins to hum Totentanz under his breath. He has always been able to appreciate talent, and classical muggle music was his vice growing up. Liszt is a particular favorite of his, the composer’s music often coming across like a nasty case of carpal tunnel just waiting to happen. 

When Draco is in a mood, he learned at a young age that he needs to find a fast distraction. Appearing put together in public is an important part of pure-blood culture. 

Potter was the only one to ever get under his skin, to the disgust of both his father and his Uncle Severus. Draco never has _truly_ recovered from his little stint as a ferret. Music is good for Draco because it’s packed with emotion, and if he can channel his moods into something equally as dramatic then he can create an expressionless mask of stone.

The castle grounds could not come soon enough, and Draco sheds his jumper quickly. The standard issue Hogwarts sweaters are unbearably itchy, but he’s going for inconspicuous this year. He sends it back up to his trunk with a flick of his wrist before hurrying out in the direction of Hagrid’s old hut. Even wearing his linen long-sleeve, he isn’t comfortable walking around with only a thin piece of fabric separating the branding of his past from the rest of the world. Unfortunately, jogging always makes Draco sweat enough without the extra layer of wool. Quidditch robes, meant to be muddied up, aren’t a great option either. He would look ridiculous walking around in them. 

Keeping his gaze far away from his covered forearm, he checks that his laces are tight before jogging lightly to the tree line. After having Lord Voldemort as a housemate, Draco is practically numb to fear. The Forbidden Forest is child’s play, and it’s perfect for his needs. The canopy keeps the forest cool, and Draco away from prying eyes. There are tons of creature trails he can follow, and as long as he stays away from the centaurs he is relatively safe.

Running is a bit like flying if he closes his eyes.

After about an hour Draco heads back to the castle. He flexes his fingers as he walks, stretching his long legs and twisting his back in various poses that he has learned from years of Quidditch. He feels a little better now. He usually does after breaking a sweat, and the fresh air helps remind him that this life is real. Not some figment of his tortured imagination. Draco tightens his hands into fists, light waves of nausea rolling through him painfully slow. The war is over, he reminds himself. Besides, his stomach is starting to rumble impatiently, hungry for more than his morning cup of tea. 

Toast sounds wonderful right now, Draco thinks with forced cheerfulness. He can see the tip of the Astronomy tower as he nears the tree line, and his small heart twinges. He still wakes up with the taste of metal in his mouth sometimes. Draco has never know fear like that night when Bellatrix Lestrange whirled in to watch him murder the man who had schooled Draco for much of his childhood.

He sees an adventurous Fire Crab right before the forest breaks. It moves through the underbrush thickly, its slow legs landing heavily on the ground. When it blinks it sort of looks like Slughorn, Draco thinks sardonically. Speaking of, he figures now is as good a time as any to pay the Potions Master a visit. The man clearly hates him, but because Harry Potter doesn’t outwardly denounce Draco people don’t know how to treat him. Draco can see the internal battle between the Golden Boy’s opinion and the man’s own as Draco approaches Slughorn’s desk.

It is still a mystery to him why the famous trio aren’t damning him, but as time passes Draco is starting to think they aren’t just trying to hold it over his head. They haven’t asked him for a thing, or frankly even spared him a glance. The charity is embarrassing, but Draco knows better than to speak up on the subject.

“Professor”.

“Draco Malfoy,” Slughorn grits out.

The clock is chiming eleven when Draco leaves the Dungeons, and he’s certain there is still a bit of breakfast left on the dining tables. Slughorn gave Draco the option for half credit, though he didn’t seem happy about it. They both know Draco would have aced the exam if he’d been there to take it, so anything but half credit would have been highly unfair. All he has to do is help Professor Sprout in the Greenhouses for a few hours, which he can handle. 

His stomach is gnawing painfully now. Draco is intimately familiar with the dining schedule: the morning dishes aren’t pulled down ‘till half past eleven, right before lunch pops up at noon. God forbid the students of Hogwarts have to wait more than thirty minutes in between meals. When he walks into the Great Hall, a hush falls across the scattered collections of students studying in groups. Draco swoops a croissant off of the nearest plate, and after a beat he grabs a handful of grapes as well. He takes a bowl of porridge too, because he is hungry and is not going to let third year girls stop him from getting proper nutrition. 

He spares them a pleasant smile and a wink before leaving gracefully. The loud whispers rising up from behind him are rather satisfying.

Winky is delighted to see him. She very nearly tips off her stool when he walks in holding his late breakfast, though that may have been in part the empty butterbeer glass she’s holding loosely. She is slowly weaning herself off the drink, but Draco can’t blame the elf for wanting to escape sometimes. 

“Good Morning,” he says gently, setting his dish down on the small table by the furnace. A few elves had greeted him on the way in, and after his relatively successful morning he’s in good spirits. 

When he says goodbye to Winky and thanks the other elves who scurry in to grab his empty bowl, he has no problem making his way to the Greenhouses.

Draco has mixed feelings about Professor Sprout. She, like all the other Professors, has witnessed some of Draco’s less flattering moments. Once second year, when Draco dumped a pot of dirt on a Ravenclaw girl’s head, she told him off publicly but pulled him aside after the lesson to ask how his home life was going. He had never been so mortified in his life. He remembers thinking, ‘How dare the bat talk down to me, a Malfoy. I may be young but my motivations were very clear. Dumping dirt on a person’s head has nothing to do with the state of someone’s _home life_.’ He was so offended that when Crabbe and Goyle asked what the fuss was about, he lied and said he had a month's worth of detentions. He actually stuck to it, and twice a week he studied in a broom closet for an hour. He realizes now that Professor Sprout had been trying to offer him much needed help. What’s done is done, he thinks miserably. 

She doesn't seem surprised when Draco knocks on the door to Greenhouse 5. She waves her hand to open the door, “Good day Draco. What can I do for you?”

“Hello Professor. I was ill for a couple of hours yesterday evening and I missed a Potions exam. Professor Slughorn is willing to give me partial points if I complete satisfactory work in the Greenhouses today”.

“Of course, we have plenty of plants that need tending to..” she trails off, before glancing down at her open notebook. She runs her index finger across its pages, muttering to herself. With her hair sticking up like that and her mumbling she looks a bit mad, Draco thinks, not unkindly. “Right! The Shrivelfigs in Greenhouse 4 need desperate pruning. Is that something you’d be up to Draco?”

“Yes, thank you”. Her eyebrows rise above her hairline, which doesn’t help against Draco’s earlier observation. Shrivelfigs aren’t one of Draco’s favorite plants, especially after Professor Snape made Potter peel them for him in class, once. He had been complaining about his arm loudly to annoy the Hippogriff loving Gryffindors, but never actually wanted to have Potter near him because of it. Watching Harry do his dirty work was amusing at the time, but having him sit at Draco’s own station had been seriously annoying. He can’t look at Shrivelfigs anymore without feeling Potter’s angry glare through the side of his head. 

Sprout gives him the proper equipment and sends him on his way. 

In a few short hours he is finished with the pruning and back on his way to Slughorn. Draco is starting to feel like an owl. This is what he is here to do though, he reminds himself. Dealing with Professors is all part of the academic process. 

He stops back in the kitchens for a quick bite and some tea before heading to his dorm room for the evening. Halfway back he hears the recognizable chatter of Harry Potter and all who come with him. Draco barely has time to duck behind a rusting suit of armor before the unusually small group rounds the corner. A few strands of his hair catch in a metal joint and he hisses quietly. Only a half dozen girls are swarming Harry as he walks with purpose towards the Transfiguration courtyard. By all of the Charms questions being thrown his way, Draco figures Potter is going to see Professor Flitwick. Harry either can’t or won’t answer half of them, and his smile seems tighter than usual as they pass Draco.

Idiot, Draco scoffs, standing upright and securing his bag over his shoulder. Potter has a subtle lean to his step, favouring his right leg, and Draco decides it makes him look like a disabled donkey. He crosses the wooden bridge and takes the shortcut through the attic towards the Grand Staircase. 

Hermione Granger is waiting on the stair Draco intends to ride when he reaches the landing. He debates for a second before he steps out onto the base of it. She is clutching a heavy looking book under her arm, and turns towards him when she hears his footsteps.

“Draco,” she says softly, nodding once.

“Granger,” he acknowledges. Her _mudblood_ scar flashes quickly in the light and Draco winces. He looks away quickly. The writing is subtle, but with her jumper bunched up at her elbows it’s like a blaring sign in Draco’s face: _look what you were a part of_ , it seems to say. He risks a glance back at Hermione and is startled at her intense gaze, boring through him. She does not look away, and Draco has to admire the power move. 

The staircase begins to move with a lurch, and it breaks their eye contact. He had tried to pour his regret, his anger, his fear, his sadness into his glance, but he knows no amount of apology can make up for the way he treated her. She is the brightest witch of their age for sure, even without her association to Harry bloody Potter, and Draco had listened to her tortured screams, once. 

She is not looking at him with accusation, which makes the whole thing worse. He knows Potter was at the Astronomy tower the night he disarmed Dumbledore. It was a key piece of the puzzle, the thing that helped the trio take down Voldemort in the end, he learned later. Draco is positive that Granger and Weasley know what happened that night, too. And the curious sympathy in Hermione Granger’s eyes makes Draco want to be sick. I had no choice, he thinks viciously, but that _doesn’t_ excuse my actions. 

He grips the strap of his bag tightly, and when the stair stops moving, Hermione isn’t looking at him any longer. He lets out a relieved breath as they walk, together but apart, down the eighth floor corridor. 

Being the subject of Granger’s gaze is terrifying, he realizes, as they near the door at the end of the hall. Draco holds it open, and she smiles slightly before ducking in. When Draco closes the door behind himself and faces the common room, he can just see her bushy hair disappear as she hurries up the stairs to the girl’s dorms.

Trevor Boot and an unnamed Ravenclaw girl are sitting together by the window, and they are deeply engaged in conversation. Draco has to fight a grin. He knows that look. He has seen many friends fall in love over the course of their school years, the stupid adolescents.

He trails up to his dorm room, where Nott and Goyle are nowhere to be seen. Zabini, though, is standing by the window, tugging off a pair of Quidditch gloves. He sends a distracted wave in Draco’s general vicinity.

“I should join the Quidditch league. Every team would drool over the chance to draft me.” Zabini sounds dead serious. Draco knows for a fact that Blaise can’t fly a broom straight for fifty galleons. For the second time that day he has to suppress a smile. When Blaise turns around, he has a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t you think so Draco?”

“Absolutely,” he deadpans. Blaise cracks, letting out a low chuckle. Zabini is actually quite funny, Draco realizes. He’s a straight and narrow type of wizard, very suspicious of everyone and incredibly smart. He is also quite haughty, but Draco figures anyone as intelligent as Blaise has the right to be. Draco is surprised at his humor. Maybe he has always been able to crack a joke, Draco just hasn’t been around to hear it.

He lets the corner of his mouth twitch up. If the grass stains on the other boys robes are anything to go by, he had crashed repeatedly on the pitch.

“Gonna head out now, see you later,” Zabini lets him know before ducking out the door. Draco hopes he’s going for a shower. His hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat.

Draco makes a cup of tea before settling down in bed to read a text about the benefits of distilled water in Amortentia. It’s one of those days, right at the end of September when Summer still clings to Autumn. Dusk falls quickly, and Draco dozes as one by one, each of his dorm mates makes their way back to the room.

  
  


***

  
  


It’s around one in the morning when he rises, slowly at first. The moon is casting a bright shadow across the room, and he can clearly see Goyle’s owl perched near the other boy’s bed. The silly bird is too shy to spend time in the owlery most days. As long as she behaves herself, they all agreed it is alright for Goyle to keep her in the dorm when she wished to stay.

The window by Draco’s bed is cracked to let air into the stuffy room, and the slight breeze is gently twisting the edges of his bed hangings. They’re restless, just like Draco feels, himself. He spent most of his life wanting to be free. On nights like this he can almost believe that he is. But after the war his old shackles were just swapped for new ones. He lays unmoving. 

Without Weasley around, Potter is a lot more subdued at school from what Draco has seen. Without Weasley to roll his eyes at him and with his and Potter’s new truce in play, there was no reason Draco couldn’t join Potter in the common room tonight, was there? 

Draco busies himself with making a cup of tea. This is all hypothetical, of course, since there’s no guarantee Potter is even in the common room. He’s careful not to make any noise while he waits for his drink to steep. 

He considers that Potter probably enjoys the quiet he only gets at night. Being alone isn’t a luxury the Boy Who Lived can always afford, not that Draco can sympathize. If Potter _is_ there, it’s not like Draco plans to make any noise. So he really wouldn’t be disturbing the peace, he decides.

He pads across the room with his steaming mug, socks graciously muffling the sound of his footsteps. Draco being awake has nothing to do with Potter. Sleepless nights aren’t rare for him, and he reminds himself that the common room is neutral territory. If Potter is up, he’s up, and if he’s not? Then Draco can finally enjoy a peaceful evening by the fire. He hopes it will be the latter. Potter is annoying as hell.

He doesn’t even look towards Potter’s usual chair as he strides in. Instead he sits on his favorite soft, grey couch, and tucks his feet delicately underneath him. 

A copy of yesterday’s Prophet is sitting open on the side table, so he grabs it for something to do. After about a minute of skimming the paper he glances up. 

He’s alone, the fire untended. 

Draco lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and takes a long sip from his mug. He’s feeling strange now, and figures that he is clearly very relieved he won’t have to face the other boy tonight. Even though Potter has no idea Draco has been spying on him, Draco’s still embarrassed about the subtle stalking.

He reads through the Prophet twice, taking note of the more relevant articles. He hasn’t picked up a paper recently, and is confused by the casual atmosphere they seem determined to project. It’s shocking how rarely his own name is mentioned, and then only in the articles about his father’s death. If he didn’t know better, he flicks his eyes to the heading of the article, _E. Limus_ is trying to paint a relatively sympathetic picture. In fact, every time ‘Draco Malfoy’ comes up, the words ‘young’ and ‘helped Harry Potter’ are close behind. Though the journalists are careful not to give Draco any real credit, they are generally labeling him a corrupted youth. Fine by him, if not personally a little insulting. It seems that the Wizarding world is trying rather hard to forget Draco ever existed. There are a few scattered obituaries as well, but the outpouring of love and sympathy has significantly dwindled as people try to forget the war ever happened.

He throws the paper to the side. He does not care about Celda Jones and her cheating husband. 

The fire is nearly out, and Draco has just started to doze when a bang and annoyed curse shake him awake. The noise is coming from the stairs, and Draco peers suspiciously at the dark landing. The shadows are moving, and he tenses, ready to politely ignore whoever it is unless they directly address him. 

Potter nearly falls into the common room, still swearing ferociously under his breath and clutching his left foot. Draco catches muttered phrases. Something about a vengeful stair step and a stubbed toe. Potter stumbles towards his arm chair, blinking blearily and ruffling his already chaotic mess of hair. He swipes the fire poker from it’s post against the wall and jabs the hot coals, daring them not to light. They oblige. Once he has a small flame going he falls back into the cushions behind him dejectedly. 

Draco is stunned. The whole thing happened in less than a minute but it seems like the entrance has lasted much longer. It feels like a good five minutes have gone by before Potter itches at the back of his neck and bothers to glance up at his surroundings.

By the time Potter’s eyes fall on him, Draco’s mouth has dried out. He snaps his lips together quickly, realizing that they’d been hanging open in shock. He regains his composure in the nick of time.

It’s Potter’s turn to look silly, eyes wide and mouth parted slightly. He smiles sheepishly. Draco nods back. Harry looks like he wants to say something but decides not to at the last minute, breaking eye contact and turning away.

Draco looks down into his lap. His feet are starting to go numb, and he untucks them from under his thighs. His ankles are tight and he rolls them experimentally. He has been having trouble with that since he started running, Quidditch is a zero gravity sport and Draco’s joints aren’t used to the constant pressure.

“Listen, Malfoy,” Draco snaps up, pulling his feet as far under the couch as they will go. How embarrassing. “I’m really sorry about the other day..” Potter winces, and unconsciously rubs his rib cage.

“Please don’t apologize, no harm done”.

“No but that’s just it, Dean said that Luna heard from Zabini who said you had to go to Pomfrey?” Draco rolls his eyes. Potter probably thinks he’s a delicate flower. He supposes that Potter has no reason to think otherwise, though. When Hagrid’s bloody chicken slashed his arm in third year, Draco was milking sympathy for _weeks_.

“No I was completely fine, Blaise was just being cautious”.

“Oh”. Potter turns away slowly. Damnit Zabini, Draco thinks. He was hoping the ‘pushed down the stairs’ rumor would stick. Students won’t be happy to learn he attacked Harry Potter, instead.

“It’s just that,”

“Potter I said I'm fine”.

“Yeah okay,” he says sheepishly. They were quiet for a moment.

“Are you alright?” Draco feels bad for not asking sooner, especially when he sees the way Potter’s eyes light up at the question.

“Oh yeah I’m great! Hermione thinks the bruise looks badass,” he jokes, like he’s forgetting who he’s talking to. Draco sighs mirthfully. Of course Potter likes getting hurt. Draco watches as the other boy retreats a bit, finally realizing his good humor was directed at Malfoy. Draco sneers.

“Well then we’re both fine. Forget about it”.

“Malfoy..” Potter starts, but he trails off and looks down instead. Draco waits, holding his breath, but Potter just turns around in his chair. The back of Harry’s head is offensive, Draco decides.

They sit in silence as the fire crackles and the sky starts to lighten. At some point Harry casts a Tempus, and Draco leans over slightly to see the time. Four a.m.. Draco can’t take it anymore. They have been ignoring each other so aggressively that at this point, Draco can poke at the tension in the air. He stands up in one smooth motion. 

Potter turns as the couch rustles and he trails Draco, walking carefully to the back of the room. Draco doesn’t look back before he steps on the landing, but he feels Harry’s glare like daggers on his back. Draco rolls his eyes. Potter is probably upset that Draco hadn’t given him more attention, the narcissistic toad. 

Potter doesn’t look like a toad at all unfortunately, not that Draco will ever admit it out loud. He has grown up to be stereotypically attractive. Good for him.

Draco is thoroughly exhausted when he falls into his four poster bed, and doesn't waste time getting under the covers. Sleep comes quickly for the first time, despite his talkative mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if i've made any mistakes, and what you think about the story so far! I looove comments always<3

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you liked it:) Thank you so much for reading.  
> Love you all and hope you are doing alright,  
> Char


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